


All the Gardens I Have Ever

by Byacolate



Series: Pit Viper [2]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Fairy Tale Elements, Historical Fantasy, M/M, Oni Genji Shimada, Sanzang Zenyatta, Shimada Genji's Affection Erection, Weird Courtship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-17
Updated: 2017-06-17
Packaged: 2018-11-15 05:28:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11224275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Byacolate/pseuds/Byacolate
Summary: So begins the tale of the mountain lord and his groom.





	All the Gardens I Have Ever

**Author's Note:**

  * For [scoobertdoobert](https://archiveofourown.org/users/scoobertdoobert/gifts).



> Happy birthday!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! You're worth a million billion words, but here are a couple thousand. It's gonna be a great year for you - these old dusty bones can taste it.

Zenyatta wakes to an empty bed. The sheets beside him hold the barest lingering warmth of a body not long gone. His robes and garments lie strewn over the floor, his mask at the foot of the futon. This he secures first, cool porcelain to his face, before he stands. Zenyatta sweeps the nearest robe over his shoulders as his feet touch the stone floor. The heat of the fire intensifies when he passes the hearth, and dims as he leaves the room.

 

There’s a bite in the air closer to the entrance of the cave, and Zenyatta knows that it will only grow sharper with time. At the mouth of the cave the demon stands - Genji, for that is his name, a secret uttered at the top of the mountain so many summers before, with his arms folded across his broad chest. There in the dark he watches the lights of the village below. 

 

“The autumn festival,” Genji says. His mask glows in the light of the waxing moon; Zenyatta knows his must, too. “Is it that time already?”

 

Though made anew in immortality by his otherworldly groom, Zenyatta cannot hear the sounds that Genji surely must, rising up from the village like bright warm lantern light. He comes to stand by Genji’s side.

 

“So it is.”

 

Turning slightly to face him, Genji tsks and pulls the scarf from his own shoulders. “Your heart will freeze in your chest if you leave it exposed like this,” he chides, looping the scarf twice about Zenyatta’s neck. He tightens Zenyatta’s robe at the waist like one might a child, and Zenyatta allows it. 

 

“I would like to attend the festival,” he says the moment he feels it to be true. Genji’s hands pause at his waist, where he has always liked to encapsulate its slimness in his grasp. 

 

“Would you?”

 

“I would.” And so, Zenyatta wagers, would Genji. Resting both palms upon his chest, Zenyatta entreats, “Let us go, together.”

 

Genji has only ever once denied him. To make a pattern of it now would bear no fruit.  


 

 

..

 

 

It is three-hundred years ago, and Zenyatta stirs from his meditation. The footfalls of his new companion are silent and swift, but his presence alone awakens something within Zenyatta. 

 

“Now I see the mamushi did not strike twice,” the lord of the mountain muses, squatting down beside him. “You were so still, I could not be sure.”

 

“Meditation stills the body and the mind,” says Zenyatta. He pats the slate of stone beside him. “Won’t you come sit?”

 

“To meditate?” The demon snorts. “Not today, monk.”

 

“Then perhaps tomorrow.” Zenyatta stands, brushing fir needles from his robes. The mountain is alive in the evening with the rustling of leaves and the call of small birds, and Zenyatta would like to walk. As they meander through the trees his companion picks apart the appearance of his bare feet, the state of his robes, how pristine his mask and crown. His footfalls make no impression at all upon the earth, not as Zenyatta’s do.

 

He had seven days to rid the mountain of this ogre, and he has lost two to talking.

 

..

 

It is three-hundred years ago, day three of seven, and Zenyatta leaves his companion at the mouth of the cave as the morning before, and the morning before that. The oni attempts to coax him in, as though Zenyatta’s answer could be any different. 

 

“If you are to kill me, priest,” says he with a gaze as sharp and splintered wood, “what better time than when I am most vulnerable?”

 

Zenyatta turns from the dark holes of the demon’s mask to gaze out upon the gold wash of the mountain in the light of the rising sun. “This is true.”

 

The demon does not care for sun, but he braves it - stubborn and imprudent - to stay for words that he would like to hear Zenyatta say. Brother Mondatta had always said that Zenyatta was a man of few words, but the oni is insatiable. He could likely find ways to pull words from the dry teeth of Zenyatta’s corpse.

 

Zenyatta thinks it it must be terribly lonely to be lord and king of a mountain cursed by one’s own self.

 

“What is also true is that I have no desire to slay you while you sleep. Or in your waking moments. Or any time at all.”

 

The demon snorts, as though he believes not a word. That is fair, Zenyatta supposes. It is no secret what he is here to do. Facing the valley and the tiny village beyond, Zenyatta resumes his lotus position on the ground. “Rest now. I will be here when you wake.”

 

“As you say,” says the lonely lord, and retreats from the light.  

 

..

 

It is three-hundred years ago and the demon does not join Zenyatta for his walk. He does not appear at his side, or follow at a distance, or show his face even once the whole evening. Without his company, Zenyatta dozes by a creek and wakes with time enough to see a family of deer drink from the cool stream. He watches in stillness until they leave, and then himself goes wandering. 

 

Three days remain. Though time is short, Zenyatta does not imagine the ogre has gone into hiding. Surely not he, stalwart and undaunted. 

 

The demon once said he could feel the tremble of every footfall in the mountain - it must be true, for he stands expectant when Zenyatta arrives at the entrance to his lair. 

 

“You took your time.” His tone is almost amicable despite the words and his right fist is closed. Zenyatta halts several steps away. 

 

“It was a pleasant evening for a stroll. I regret that I could not share it with you.”

 

When the demon steps forward, Zenyatta holds his ground, even once he’s close enough to touch. He is regarded for a long and silent moment in the soft blue light of a waking dawn. 

 

“Will you come inside with me, Master Monk?”

 

“No,” says Zenyatta. “But I will happily stay here with you, my friend.” 

 

A soft noise leaves the demon’s mouth. “Give me your hand.”

 

In good faith, Zenyatta does. And in good faith a hand swathed in darkness takes his wrist. Another pushes something into Zenyatta's palm before the demon ducks back into his lair before the bright light of day can catch him.

 

.. 

 

The fangs of the mamushi curve low at the end of the mottledbrown rope - skin, Zenyatta realizes after further analysis. Snake skin. The scales of the mamushi, twisted and coiled tight enough to form a necklace lined with pearlescent teeth. 

 

Under the heat of the sun, Zenyatta divests himself of his outermost robe and dons the necklace in its stead. Moving himself to the shade of the rock, he places the folded robe upon the ground and rests his head. The demon finds him there in the evening, a hand of dark and vulnerable flesh laid upon his chest, fingers brushing venom-washed fangs. He crouches by Zenyatta’s side as he had not one week afore to watch him rouse from slumber.

 

“You sleep, as well as meditate.”

 

Quietly, Zenyatta laughs, sitting upright. “And eat, and weep, and dance as any other man.”

 

“The robes come off too.” The faded ochre of his robes seem bright clenched in the demon’s fist as he shakes them once at Zenyatta. “But not the mask, I see.”

 

Zenyatta touches the fangs at his breast before his fingers lift to brush the porcelain at his cheek. “Here, you are mistaken,” he says, and carefully removes the crown, and with it the mask from his face. Zenyatta is sticky, flushed with sweat, and he has to wipe a salty drop from the corner of his eye under the oni’s silent scrutiny. He must be taking it all in - the shape of his eyes, the wideness of his mouth, the monastic ink within his forehead. Zenyatta smiles to reassure a quiet man. “You have my thanks - for the gift.”

 

“Perhaps it was a warning,” the ogre grumbles, suddenly churlish behind his own sculpted mask. Zenyatta reaches out to touch the back of his hand before he takes his robes. 

 

“Perhaps it was,” Zenyatta nods, “but you see, I have often been accused of obstinance.”

 

This time, it is the great and terrible Lord of the Mountain who falls prey to laughter.

 

..

 

It is three hundred years ago, and Zenyatta has failed his task. 

 

“This will treat my reputation ill,” he muses peering through the trees toward the village in the valley. The midsummer festival has begun, and with it heralds the first day hence the date of completion agreed upon by the village elders. Behind him the demon snorts, leaning against a towering conifer. 

 

“You care little for such things.”

 

“The people do,” Zenyatta informs him, tucking the gift of the mamushi beneath his robes. “They were convinced of my prowess as a tool for success.”

 

“Boastful,” says the demon, gleefully. “They don’t seem to care much for you, if they carry on with their festivities in the wake of your supposed death.”

 

“I believe they celebrate in appeasement to you.” Cicadas hum their deafening chorus in the middle distance, too perturbed by the presence of the ogre to draw nearer. “I may have succeeded in my task, were you not so charming and reasonable,” Zenyatta says, tucking his sleeves up and baring his arms. He can feel the demon’s heated gaze and steps foot toward the lights.

 

“You would not have been the first to try, but -” He stops, and the heat of his gaze is gone.

 

“We might still enjoy the festivities after I humbly apologize before the elders,” suggests Zenyatta, peering over his shoulder at the silent shadow waiting. Genji waves him off.

 

“Another year, I think.”

 

..

 

Without his mask, the Lord of the Mountain looks no more than a young man with dark hair and darker eyes. Without his mask, Zenyatta looks no more than a bald young man a head taller with a short gap between his teeth and an ancient brand of a long-lost order above his brow. They dress simply as they stroll through the village, grown thrice in size since their first meeting. 

 

Several vendors sell traditional wares, and with them fine heavy silks in a kaleidoscope of fantastic colors and elegant patterns for the cooler months. A flutter of pleasure blooms in Zenyatta’s chest when Genji asks for his aid in securing a montsuki of white, patterned with orange sparrows. The playfulness, the brightness is indicative of Genji’s mood, and Zenyatta lingers as he helps him dress behind a curtain. Fondly, Genji’s young face smiles up to him. 

 

“And yours?”

 

“I beg only a moment to appreciate the color on you.” Zenyatta brushes his hands down the folds of the montsuki. 

 

“Hmm? The white?” Genji lifts an arm to observe himself. “It’s alright. I like the sparrows.”

 

“I know. I am appreciating that too.” 

 

Zenyatta is warm-blooded, hailing so long ago from the mountains of his birth in Nepal, and chooses simply a yukata - out of season, inexpensive, rather quite plain. But deep earthy red has always been pleasing to his eye, and with a mustard yellow obi to pair with it, he is happy enough with himself to make Genji snicker and draw him down by the back of his neck. The world around them passes with light and sound, but they are content in simply one another behind Aunty’s courtesy curtain. 

 

“You look good, Master Monk,” Genji murmurs, taking his time tying the obi in place with his arms around Zenyatta’s waist. 

 

“My thanks.” Zenyatta rests his temple against Genji’s. “You look resplendent, bright one.”

 

Genji finishes with the obi and rests his hands at Zenyatta’s waist, eyes nearly closed for heaviness, breathing slowly through his nose. Zenyatta takes pity and cups his jaw to plant a tender kiss upon his cheek. “Come. I will find a lovely fish for us to take home.”

 

“A fish?” Zenyatta walks past, taking Genji’s hand as he parts the curtain to step back out onto the path. “You want a fish? Hey, I hope you mean something fried. I could smell the carts all the way up the mountain.”

 

“Then I will feed you, as well as dress you. And then I will find us a fish,” says Zenyatta. His fingers twine loosely through Genji’s, though for a moment the ogre transformed is too distracted by the bright green hair of a young woman in passing to tighten them. Belatedly, he grins. Impish. Teasing.  


 

“And then maybe we can visit the shrine immortalizing you as Groom of the Mountain.”

 

It’s Zenyatta’s turn to follow when Genji catches wind of the food carts, tugging Zenyatta along through a crowd of lantern-bearing children. 

 

He laughs, keeping up with his bare feet. “I would like that.”

**Author's Note:**

> I'm writing a high fantasy comic about a wandering bard! [Check it out from the beginning HERE!](https://bardbouquet.tumblr.com/post/179195348759/a-dwarven-heirloom-a-blade-in-the-dark-and-a)
> 
> You, Beloved, who are all  
> the gardens I have ever gazed at,  
> longing.  
> — Rainer Maria Rilke


End file.
